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“Mahs’r Morris,” said Grandison, removing his hat, “Brudder ‘Bijah an’ me has been argyin on de subjick ob truf. An’ jes’ as you was comin’ up I was gwine ter tell him a par’ble ’bout sticken ter truf. An’ if you’s got time, Mahs’r Morris, I’d be pow’ful glad ter tell you de par’ble, an’ let you ‘cide ‘tween us.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Morris, “go on with your parable.”

“Dis yere par’ble,” said Grandison, “has got a justifyin’ meanin’ in it, an’ it’s ’bout a bar an’ a’ possum. De ‘possum he was a-gwine out early in de mawnin’ ter git a little corn fur his breakfus’–“

“Very wrong in the opossum,” said Mr. Morris, “for I am sure he hadn’t planted any corn.”

“Well, den, sah,” said Grandison, “p’raps ’twas akerns; but, anyway, afore he was out ob de woods he see a big, ole bar a-comin’ straight ‘long to him. De ‘possum he ain’t got no time ter climb a tree an’ git out on de leetlest end ob a long limb, an’ so he lay hese’f flat down on de groun’ an’ make b’lieve he’s dead. When de ole bar came up he sot down an’ look at de ‘possum. Fus’ he turn his head on one side an’ den he turn his head on de udder, but he look at de ‘possum all de time. D’reckly he gits done lookin’ an’ he says:

“‘Look-a-heah, ‘possum, is you dead or is you libin’? If you’s dead I won’t eat you, fur I neber eats dead critters, but if you’s libin’ den I eats you for my breakfus’, fur I is bilin’ hungry, not havin’ had nuffin sence sun-up but a little smack dat I took afore gwine out inter de damp air ob de mawnin’. Now, den, ‘possum, speak out and tell me is you ‘libe or is you dead?’

“Dat are question frew de ‘possum inter a pow’ful sweat. If he told de truf an’ said he was alibe he knowed well ‘nuf dat de bar would gobble him up quicker’n if he’d been a hot ash cake an’ a bowl of buttermilk; but if he said he was dead so’s de bar wouldn’t eat him, de bar, like ‘nuf, would know he lied, an’ would eat him all de same. So he turn de matter ober an’ ober in his min’, an’ he wrastled with his ‘victions, but he couldn’t come ter no ‘clusion. ‘Now don’t you tink,’ said de bar, ‘dat I’s got time to sit here de whole mawnin’ waitin’ fer you ter make up your mind whether you’s dead or not. If you don’t ‘cide pretty quick, I’ll put a big rock a-top o’ you, an’ stop fer you answer when I come back in de ebenin’.’ Now dis gib de ‘possum a pow’ful skeer, an’ ’twas cl’ar to his min’ dat he mus’ ‘cide de question straight off. If he tole de truf, and said he was alibe, he’d be eat up shuh; but if he said he was dead, de bar mought b’lieve him. ‘Twarn’t very likely dat he would, but dar was dat one leetle chance, an’ he done took it. ‘I is dead,’ says he. ‘You’s a long time makin’ up your min’ ’bout it,’ says de bar. ‘How long you been dead?’ ‘Sence day ‘fore yestidday,’ says the ‘possum. ‘All right!’ says de bar, ‘when dey’ve on’y been dead two or free days, an’ kin talk, I eats ’em all de same.’ An’ he eat him up.”

“And now, Grandison,” said Mr. Morris, “where is the moral of that parable?”

“De moral is dis,” said Grandison; “stick ter de truf. If de ‘possum had tole de truf, an’ said he was alibe, de bar couldn’t eat him no more’n he did eat him; no bar could do dat. An’ I axes you, Mahs’r Morris, don’ dat par’ble show dat eb’rybody oughter stick ter de truf, no matter what happens.”